Mercedes Lackey - Crown of Vengeance

“She has tried!” Hervilafimir said. “He took his wound in Sword, and she labored over him sennight upon sennight before bringing him to us!”

“Then why is he not yet dead?” Vieliessar grumbled, slipping her feet into her leather-soled stockings. It was Fire Moon now, which meant eight sennights at least since Amlunan had taken his injury. She Called a basin of water to her and splashed her face, then Sent it away again and took a deep breath. “No, tell me as we go. He is in the healing chambers, is he not?”

“These four candlemarks,” Hervilafimir answered, as they walked from the sleeping room. “I would not have called upon you, but I cannot break the spell.”

“Spell?” Vieliessar said sharply. To bespell the Warlord of a House for baneful purposes was treason if done by that House’s Lightborn, and warcraft if done by another House. Either was impossible to imagine.

“Dormorothon has said it was no Lightborn, but one of the Beastlings who did this.”

“She is here?” Vieliessar demanded, her mind racing. Aramenthiali lay east of Caerthalien; half a dozen domains and the Sanctuary itself lay between them and the Western Shore. Where had Amlunan taken such hurt?

“She is,” Hervilfimir said grimly. “Nor will she leave his side—she and all her entourage.”

Their conversation had taken them down the staircase and along the corridor that led to the healing chambers. Vieliessar’s steps slowed. She could see the echoes of the Banespell clinging to the walls and the floor like filth.

’ Fimir knew it was a Banespell—she would have Warded the treatment chamber …

But it was as if there were no Shields at all. Vieliessar’s spellsight showed foulness like liquid shadow pooling upon the floor, bedewing the walls, wafting through the air like an evil fog. Banespells drew power from their victims and could even claim the lives of those around the afflicted.

It is the great mercy of Sword and Star that there are few patients here today, Vieliessar thought, for the whole of the healing chambers would need cleansing once Amlunan had been Healed.

Or had died.

The Banespell eddied around those standing sentry in the hall.

Ladyholder Dormorothon’s hair was as short as any other Lightborn’s, but she wore a veil of glittering silver gauze that masked its length. She wore the green-and-silver of the Sanctuary, but the cut and fabric of her garments was as elaborate as any Lady of a High House might wear, and her ears, neck, wrists, and fingers were heavy with jewels. Behind her stood two komen with surcoats of Aramenthiali blue and gold over their armor, and beside them, two youngsters who had not yet reached their second decade. One wore the heavy padded leather that proclaimed her an arming page, the other the soft and fashionable silks that marked him as Dormorothon’s personal page.

“You may not loiter here,” Vieliessar said sharply. “Lightsister, you know this well. If you will not go to the guesthouse yourself, then send your people there at once.”

For a moment it seemed as if Dormorothon would argue, but then she raised her hand. “Geleborn, take the others to Mistress Hamonglachele. I will remain to attend Amlunan,” she added, staring challengingly at Vieliessar.

“You will go with them, for if your power was great enough to aid Amlunan you would not be here at all,” Vieliessar said sharply. She did not wait to see if Dormorothon obeyed.

Vieliessar strengthened her Shields, then sent Power to the door of the chamber in which Amlunan waited. Energy crackled over and through the Banespell, but did not dispel it. She had not thought it would. She slid the door aside.

The healing chamber was large, for it was as much a place of teaching as it was a place of healing. Disease and injury could befall both Lightborn and Lightless alike, and in cases where Healing need not be done, the proper spells could still lift pain from the sufferer. To the Lightless, it seemed all that was needed was a touch or a gesture—and so Vieliessar had believed herself until the day she had first come under Hervilafimir’s tutelage. In truth, the Lightborn must first see the patient whole and unmarred, and next, eliminate the discord between their self as it was, and as it had been and would be. If only the flesh required aid, that was a simple enough matter. If spirit or mind had been harmed—or if the sufferer were bespelled—the task was more complex.

The Lightless believed that sometimes a Healing failed. The truth, as all Lightborn knew, was that if the Healer survived, the Healing had not failed. But there were times a Healer must choose—their own life, or the life of their patient.

I shall not choose, Vieliessar told herself grimly.

Amlunan should have been in the vigor of his middle years, his body filled with the strength and grace of a life spent upon the battlefield. The warrior who lay upon the bed was gaunt with illness, his body prematurely withered and frail. His long black hair was dull and lifeless, his cheeks sunken with pain. The stench of bane and wound-fever assaulted Vieliessar’s senses. The new, white bandages that Hervilafimir must have placed upon his wound were already stained with wound-poison and his ivory skin had a grey undertone. Yet his dark eyes were bright and aware. Were he not strong, he would have died sennights ago.

“Lightsister,” he said, his voice a croaking whisper. “Have you come to summon the Silver Hooves to bear me away?”

“I come to cast out the hurt you have taken,” Vieliessar said crisply. “Naught else.” Walking the few steps to his bedside made her skin crawl even through her shields. It was as if she was immersed in a chill river of slime.

“My Lady has tried. Your own Healing Mistress as well. Who are you to set your power above theirs?”

“One whom Hervilafimir thinks shall prevail,” she answered. She knelt beside his bed and reached for his hand.

“I would know your name,” Amlunan insisted, struggling to raise himself to a sitting position and failing in his weakness.

“And I would know how you came to take this hurt,” Vieliessar answered. Amlunan had been Warlord of Aramenthiali in Serenthon’s day; she would not conjure old enmities to complicate her task. Her fingers closed around his hand. It was cold and clammy, and she could feel the tremors of pain that passed through him.

“As any might,” Amlunan whispered, closing his eyes. “Aramenthiali sent aid to Cirandeiron. They suspected Daroldan of betrayal, though Daroldan was bound to peace by treaty. In the forest of Avribalzar did Aramenthiali absolve Daroldan.” He paused, struggling for breath. “A she-beast did this. She struck me with a spear. Slain by Guiomar Lightbrother, she slew him in turn. At first, I knew not of her deceitfulness.” Even that short speech had exhausted him. He turned his head away, gasping for breath.

Vieliessar had questioned Amlunan to summon to the surface of his mind his memories of that day. His words were of less import than his thoughts. As if she had been there, Vieliessar saw the dimness of the forest, the furred form of the Beastling shamaness as she reared up out of concealment to strike. The Beastlings were clever, and their sorcerers doubly so—she could see, now, how the Banespell had defeated both Hervilafimir and Dormorothon. Amlunan’s wound was in his thigh, but the spear had not needed to pierce his flesh to do him harm. It had been crafted to transform the energy of Healing to feed shields that would make Healing impossible, while continuing to work its evil behind them.

My power is greater than theirs.

Once she had dreamed of becoming a Knight. She had already survived more and fiercer battles than any save the greatest of komentai’a could boast of. It was not for her skill at Healing that Hervilafimir had called her, but for her power.